


Promises, Promises

by hlwim



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Angst, Drama, F/M, Organized Crime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-29 17:08:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/689396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hlwim/pseuds/hlwim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Zuko sees Mai again—for the first time, in three years—it's on the arm of another man.  Gangster/1920s AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	Promises, Promises

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this image ](http://queenofthecute.deviantart.com/art/Film-Noir-Avatar-AU-115012296)by QueenOfTheCute and [this post](http://themelonlordapproves.tumblr.com/post/43308630747/film-noir-avatar-au-by-queenofthecute-zukos). May or may not be continued, after I finish _Distances_.

When he sees her again—for the first time, in three years—it's on the arm of another man.

Zuko sets up at the end of the bar, orders a scotch, and watches. This is Jeong Jeong's place—normal nights Zuko would steer clear, but someone, who heard from someone else who just might be reliable, told him that the Dai Li are sweeping up 16th tonight, all the way to Kyoshi square. He knows it's a risk, sailing so close to familiar waters, but most of the old enforcers are dead or dismembered, and Jeong Jeong is happy to be reminded of all the help the Lotus provided in days past. So he's safe enough tonight.

His scotch arrives, and Zuko drops a few gold pieces into the waiting palm.

“That woman,” he says to the barkeep, indicating Mai with a jerk of his head. The barkeep glances, subtly at least, and shakes his head.

“Don't do it to yourself, kid,” he says. “Shows up end of every week with some new sucker. Two weeks later they find what's left of him, floating out to sea.”

Zuko hides his smile beneath a slow sip.

“Except this one, that is.”

“And what's so special about _him_?”

The keep looks down at the empty counter, and Zuko obliges him two more gold pieces. With a cough, he sweeps the money into his apron and leans forward.

“Ruon-Jian. Enforcer for Zhao and the southside Dragons. New—I've only seen him a few times. Works out of the Fishery, with Chan.”

He leans away again, looking Zuko up and down.

“Nothing you probably couldn't take. Except the girl. She don't look it, but a girl like that—she doesn't need protection.”

“Don't have to tell _me_ that,” Zuko says, tossing back the rest of his drink. “Thanks.”

“Anytime you got the coin, Mister, uh—?”

But Zuko doesn't oblige, rising from the stool without a look back. He moves like a shadow through the crowd, hands in pockets, head down, circling around to avoid her line of sight. This close, he can recognize the rest of the gathering—Dragons, every one, red and black jackets, orange ties, shoulders spiked here and there. Mai's hair glitters with gold flames.

She's the only one not to laugh when Ruon-Jian tells a joke, sighing instead, tapping a new cigarette into the ivory holder balanced in her delicate hand.

“Need a light?” Zuko asks, snapping fire between his fingertips.

A hush falls—the rest of the speak carries on, but this little gathering is silenced. If Mai is surprised or recognizes him, she is careful not to let it show, eyes burning steadily into his as she leans, blood red lips a thin bow around the tip of the holder.

“She doesn't need one, _thanks_ ,” Ruon-Jian says, and his hand gripping her shoulder does nothing, not even dislodging Mai's stare.

“Sure I did,” she says, perfectly neutral, dismissing him from the conversation. “You always wear your hat inside?”

“Not always,” Zuko says. “But I try never to leave anything behind.”

“Hey, she's with me,” Ruon-Jian snaps, attempting now to step between them, but Mai places a firm hand on his chest. The music changes then, turning slow, sensual, almost sinister, as the crowd splits into couples.

“I want a vodka, _neat_ ,” Mai says, finally sparing Ruon-Jian a cool glance. “And don't forget the olives.”

One hand closes around the lapel of Zuko's jacket, and the other tips the ashes from the end of her cigarette, as she pulls him away, to the far side of the floor.

His arms are quick to remember their old place around her new curves, and her lithe frame curls and writhes against him.

“This is a dangerous place for someone like you,” she says quietly.

“Someone _like_ me, or _me_?”

She leans back enough to take a quick drag from the cigarette, studying him through hooded eyes. The points of her nails are set sharply against the curve of his shoulder.

“So who's your boyfriend?”

“You don't get to be jealous,” she warns, with a look more piercing than any of the knives he knows are strapped beneath her short dress. “Not after all this time.”

He pulls her in a little more, as though closing the physical distance could somehow erase the years apart. Mai's free hand drifts up, fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck.

“What do I get, then? Like you said, _after all this time_?”

She considers through another drag, blowing the smoke in a thin line from the side of her mouth, away, obscuring for a moment the gathered Dragons and Ruon-Jian, who paces the far side of the floor, vodka boiling in his hand.

“A favor,” Mai says at last, and Zuko's hands slide up between her shoulder blades, drawing a delicious sigh from her parted lips.

“And I suppose I should waste it asking not to end up floating downriver, courtesy of your boyfriend and the Fishery.”

“He's _not_ my boyfriend, Zuko,” she murmurs, lips curled against the shell of his shriveled ear. “He's my mark.”

For a moment, they dance cheek-to-cheek, the flutter of her eyelashes kissing the unforgiving numbness of his scar. Zuko pushes her away, hands locked over her wrists, and then yanks her body back against his. Her cigarette holder clatters to the floor, and her grey eyes spark with fire.

“I want to see you again.”

Ruon-Jian barrels through the crowd, throwing aside the glass, and her whisper is almost lost in his fury.

“He'll be dead before midnight. Find me then.”

She lets Ruon-Jian pull her away, curling into his arms with false offense, but she can't break Zuko's stare.

“My fault,” Zuko says to the barrel of Ruon-Jian's gun. “I thought she was a different girl.”

With a tip of his hat, Zuko makes a leisurely exit.

The street outside is still full, but he walks down a few blocks, just in case, to the inner ring checkpoint. The guards there recognize him by the flash of his lotus-embellished pocket watch, so Zuko leans up against barricade without harassment, tapping a half-empty cigarette pack against his hand. He keeps to the shadows out of habit, lighting up, his features briefly illuminated by the burning glow.

He can see clear back to the speak's entrance and waits. The crowd thins and thickens, neons wink, a curl of music beckons behind an open window across the street—Zuko finishes his first cigarette as a cool drizzle starts up over the street.

She appears just when he's reached the end of the pack. Zuko snaps up one last flame, and the speak's red door swings out onto the street, belching the drunk Dragons into the night. He zeroes on her immediately, her pale face and pointed stride, as she holds Ruon-Jian up, one arm around his back, the other on his chest, over his heart. Goodbyes are shouted back and forth, and Mai peels Ruon-Jian away, deeper into the street, but away from the Dragons' territory. Zuko gives her a lead of two blocks before unfolding from the wall and following.

Hat low, collar up, hands buried in his pockets, Zuko hunches forward, pushing against the sea of scattered people. He doesn't need to watch to know where she's headed, and Ruon-Jian's just sliding down the wall, eyes vacant, when he finds her.

Mai bends to wipe the knife clean on Ruon-Jian's sleeve, speaking without turning her head, as Zuko slides around the corner. The street behind him is deserted and dark.

“He's been smuggling opium into the city. Stuffed up inside these ugly little porcelain hog-monkeys.”

“And he failed to pay the tax?”

With a flash of pale thigh, she slips the blade back into its harness.

“No one crosses Ozai in this city,” she says. “But I guess you know that better than anyone.”

He steps into the alley at last and looks up, tilting his face into the meager moonlight. Mai takes a hesitant step towards him, and then another.

“Let me have a look at you,” she says quietly, as with one hand she pulls off his hat, and the other travels up from his neck, fingers threaded through his hair, across and over his burned ear. The tip of her pointed nail travels all around the edge of the scar.

He can't help the shudder that rises from his gut, or the instinct that snaps his hand up and clamps down on her wrist. He softens it, though, gently setting her hand to his shoulder.

“It never bothers me,” he says quietly, “until I think of you.”

Something in her hardens, and she steps back.

“So you _did_ think of me. Not in leaving, of course.”

“What's _that_ supposed to mean?”

Another step, and she leans away, arms crossing, crushing the brim of his hat.

“You know exactly. You disappear, come back four years later, and all I get is a note for goodbye, and here you are, three years after that, like a ghost. Seven years, and all I have to show for it is a few stolen kisses and one lousy letter.”

“You could've followed me, you know.”

“You could've asked me to go.”

He can't answer that, looking down, ashamed. Mai sighs, offering out his hat.

“So this is what you do now,” he says. “A Dragon.”

“You know I'm not. Only firebenders can be made.”

“But you're doing their work.”

He takes his hat back and gestures to Ruon-Jian, still bleeding out into the gutter.

“Your sister's a princess,” Mai says evenly. “Ozai's grooming her to take over.”

“And you thought to get in with her now, so you're safe later.”

She gives a short, bitter laugh, and then meets his eyes defiantly.

“I'm sorry it's not up to your obsessive standards, but some of us are just trying to stay alive.”

“Like him?”

She recrosses her arms.

“I meant what I said. You get one favor.”

“We're more than that.”

“Not anymore, Zuko.”

She makes to end it, to walk past him and back to the street, back out into the night, but he can't let it end like this, not again, and he grabs her arm, spinning her around. She's ready though, and a trio of shuriken whisper past his good ear, finding purchase in the brick behind him.

He immobilizes her other hand quickly, rushing her up against the wall, blocking her kick to his knee, so he ends up between her legs, panting, body pressed tight against hers.

Her breath is just as unsteady, and his eyes fall on her neck, on the pulse pounding just beneath her skin, and before he can think, before he can even begin to process what just happened, Zuko leans forward and presses his lips there, as though the kiss could calm them both.

Mai lets out something of a strangled gasp, and when he releases one hand, it flies immediately into his hair and then the other follows, and she wraps both legs around him, crushing the distance like he did before, back at the speak. But this is a whole different dance.

He wants so badly for it to be like their first time, sixteen and seventeen, awkward hands and teeth, trying to keep quiet in the tiny loft above his uncle's teashop, but that was so long ago, and they are such different people now, and there's never going to be enough time. When they kiss, it's like a duel only one of them can survive, and she helps his frantic hands get rid of just enough clothing to make it work.

She gasps when he enters her, biting her lip hard enough to draw blood, stifling further noise against his mouth. Her nails dig deep into his shoulders, almost through the fabric, her hips working with and against him. The knives strapped to her thigh drag against his skin.

He goes first and then helps her follow, his fingers working her to a sudden, quiet climax, and her head collapses back against the wall, struggling for breath. Her hair has come undone in places, the gold flames dislodged, and he eases her back to the ground.

They each fix their own clothing without looking at the other, shy now in the adrenaline crash. Mai retrieves Zuko's hat from the gutter, smoothing the wrinkled brim.

“I have to get rid of this,” she says quietly, fluttering out an unsteady arm towards Ruon-Jian's body—facing away, thankfully.

“I could do it,” Zuko says, just as quiet, settling the hat low over his eyes. “Should be more careful. You're getting a reputation.”

“This doesn't change anything,” she says, and it's hard to tell if she means the offer or something else. She meets his eyes briefly and looks away again. “You still only have one.”

“I won't waste it,” he says, turning to watch her walk past.

“You'll see me again,” she promises, and disappears into the darkness.


End file.
